


O Captains! Our Captains!

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Come Eating, Desk Sex, Fondling, Hero Worship, Implied/Referenced Hole Whipping, Loyalty, M/M, Military, Praise Kink, Riding Crops, honor bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: “Wilt disgrace thyself by crying out, by trying to flee? Or wilt honor thy oath to us and take such chastisement like the consummate soldier thou art?”





	O Captains! Our Captains!

**Author's Note:**

> Before the (in retrospect, bleedingly obvious) title occurred to me, I was going to call this “Deret Has Two Daddies.”

For the first split second after the first kiss of the riding crop, Deret’s arse was utterly numb. The flesh of his left buttock, jutting brazenly along with its counterpart into the air above Captain Orthema’s desk, had yielded under the blow with a wobble as if it were rounded not with muscle but with fat. Then the weal erupted in agony like a ditch filled with oil and set aflame. His eyes widened and watered slightly.

He had been dealt far-worse and more-frightening pain than this. He would, he swore anew and silently, withstand all twenty promised strokes.

Captain Orthema gave him no time to accommodate himself to the sensation: the crop tore across his right buttock immediately thereafter. Deret’s breath caught wetly in his throat. And then the leather tongue crossed back over the left cheek, catching the skin it had inflamed before. A gasp escaped Deret, but he bit his lower lip and clung even more tightly to the edges of the desk. And prayed to Anmura that the next strokes would fall elsewhere.

The fourth and fifth strokes were not even half a second apart, and he cursed his own prayer of a moment before, for this time they fell upon the creases that separated his buttocks from his upper thighs. He made a quiet noise that yet shamed him, a gasp that shaded into a most animalistic grunt.

“One-fourth of the way through, Lieutenant,” Captain Orthema said in his quiet, brook-no-nonsense voice.

“He takes it so remarkably well, Captain.” That was Captain Vizhenka.

“In sooth, he does. We would not have recommended him as First Soldier-Nohecharis had he been unable to bear grievous pain for his Zhas.”

Barely had Captain Orthema uttered that last word than the edge of the tongue skittered across the skin it had just struck full-on. Deret’s entire body twitched — and, to his shock, no part of it twitched harder than his bare cock, trapped between his heaving belly and the cool, smooth wood of the desktop. Shock gave way to shame almost immediately.

The beating, he’d been prepared for. Or so he’d thought. As a cadet he he’d borne the knotted lash upon his back from time to time, if less often than most of his fellows. The sense of failure, the shame of all the others watching him being chastised, had always stung him far worse than the actual strokes. Here and now, he was being beaten not for his failure but for his triumph: Captain Orthema wished to show Captain Vizhenka what his treasured protégé could endure. And were not the buttocks, with their thick musculature and padding of fat, a much safer place upon which to be struck than the back, with its thin layer of skin over precious bones and organs?

He had not considered that his buttocks would be more sensitive than his back. Even less had he reckoned that, somehow, the fire Captain Orthema was setting to his arse might spread to adjoining areas.

Compounding his shame was how few additional blows it took to turn his gasps to whimpers, then to quiet sobs; and how he began to wriggle in place. But, true to the oath he had given, he never once released the sides of Captain Orthema’s desk. He gripped them so hard that he fancied his knuckles had begun to throb even more painfully than his arse, though he knew logically that was unlikely.

And, to his mortification, his cock was throbbing harder than both.

“How his skin colors so from the crop,” Captain Vizhenka said with admiration after the nineteenth stroke. “We have only ever disciplined goblins before; the change in hue is so much more startling in an elf. Please halt your strokes a moment, Captain; we would feel his heat, an you would permit.”

There was the frictional sound of him rising from the leather armchair, and then the click of his boot-heels upon the well-polished wooden floor. A broad, rough hand, a soldier’s hand, settled upon Deret’s left buttock and began to rub gentle circles into the smarting flesh. So shameful, so humbling, far more so than being whipped as a man before other men: his arse in the air like a schoolboy’s over the master’s lap, his superiors watching him squirm, Captain Vizhenka soothing him as though he were indeed a sobbing child. But the fire in Deret’s loins swirled in tandem with those circles.

“He is a most fetching sight like this. And so beautifully obedient to you.”

“Lieutenant Deret Beshelar is the flower of the Untheileneise Guard,” Captain Orthema said. The pride in his voice was unmistakeable, and Deret was ashamed of the fervid gratitude that welled up in him upon hearing it.

The idle tap of the crop against the hardened heel of Orthema’s left hand made him shudder — and then he shuddered again as the Captain of the Hezhethoreise Guard parted his buttocks with gentle fingers. He had never felt more exposed in his life, the most vulgar part of his body in full view of these two men, whom he admired more than any other in the world, save possibly His Serenity. But he had sworn hand to heart that he would put himself at their mercy and, by Anmura, he would.

His courage nearly deserted him when he felt the tongue of the wicked implement trailing down the inner curve of his arse-cleft, then circle his hole. It was warm and supple with frequent oilings, and Captain Orthema’s touch was mockingly feather-light. “Shall we strike thee there, Lieutenant?” his captain mused. “Wilt disgrace thyself by crying out, by trying to flee? Or wilt honor thy oath to us and take such chastisement like the consummate soldier thou art?”

Deret could barely reply, he was breathing so hard, and he could not tell in sooth where his terror ended and his eagerness began. And that in and of itself terrified him: how on earth could he _long_ for such a blow, the pain of which would be unbearable, and which might do him true harm?

The answer was in his heart already: _It would be at my captain’s hand._

He swallowed. In a voice far smaller than pleased him, yet adequately firm to his purpose, he said, “I am your man, Captain Orthema. I will take whatever pain you, or Captain Vizhenka, see fit to deal me.”

The leather tongue tickled across his hole once more — and then fell away completely. Deret braced himself for a blow that did not come for seconds. Five, ten, twenty, forty. What came instead were the sounds of Captain Orthema’s boot-heels, a rustle of clothing, and the _pop_ of a vial cork.

“Hold him open while we prepare him for us, Captain Vizhenka.”

 _Us._ Plural. Deret drove his teeth into his tongue to suppress his groan.

His captain’s hands were as rough and broad as those of his Hezhethoreise counterpart, but they bore no weapons at the ends of their fingers as the soft hands of courtiers did. Deret closed his eyes and welcomed the intrusion of the first heavily oiled finger: Captain Orthema had just marked Deret’s flesh as his own, and now he claimed it. The finger moved inside him with skill and knowing, finding the hidden nerves and teasing them without mercy. Deret now fought not to writhe with pleasure, with the desire to rub his cock against Captain Orthema’s desk.

The second finger burned, despite Captain Vizhenka having poured a bit more oil into Deret’s cleft to let it drip down ticklingly upon his hole. Deret welcomed not just the new finger but the burning stretch, as if it drew some of the heat out of his buttocks. Captain Orthema finger-fucked him with a ruthless, calculated precision that had Deret panting, and the one time he forgot himself entirely and pushed backward against that pistoning hand, he whimpered as his buttocks throbbed with renewed pain.

Both captains chuckled. “How eager he is to give himself up entirely to you,” Captain Vizhenka said, “though it pains him!”

“In sooth, Anmura could not have blessed us with one more eager.”

It was shortly thereafter that Deret felt the broad, blunt head breaching his hole. He let himself sigh as Captain Orthema took him, inch by inch, pulling him up by the hips that he could hilt himself entirely within his lieutenant. His sighs stuttered into gasps as his reddened buttocks smacked up against the captain’s groin and hips. With every thrust, Captain Orthema’s body buffeted his sensitized flesh anew, but he abandoned himself to the pain and let it fan the flames in his loins higher.

“Look how hard he is,” Captain Vizhenka said, and Deret almost spent upon the desk as the Barizheise captain’s long finger traced his length from root to tip.

“Do not spend, Lieutenant!” Captain Orthema said, stern despite his increasingly rapid breaths. “Thou must stay erect for Captain Vizhenka too. If spill’st despite our command, we will deal thee twenty more strokes of the crop upon thy thighs, and wilt not be allowed to spend for hours.”

“I — will not spill — Captain,” Deret swore through gritted teeth.

Captain Orthema did not reply to this, merely continued to thrust into him harder and harder. Deret’s mind swam and his eyes prickled from the pleasure-pain, from the need to cling to his will even more tightly than he clung to the desk that he might keep himself from coming undone. He barely, just barely, held himself in check from banging his forehead against the desk.

Before long, his captain grunted, thrust twice or thrice more, and ceased to move other than to breathe heavily. At last he withdrew. Deret felt as though he gaped like a cavern, and the air was unbearably cool upon his tender buttocks and thighs and upon his wet cleft where the seed seeped from his hole.

It was but seconds before Captain Vizhenka took Captain Orthema’s place, rekindling the smarting heat and the blessed feeling of fullness. The rasp of a stiff prick against Deret’s buried nerves was nearly unbearable now, and he moaned with every thrust.

“May’st not touch thyself, Lieutenant,” Captain Orthema ordered, “or rub thyself against our desk. May’st spend only from being fucked. Canst do that, think’st thou? Canst show us both how it gratifies thee to be the instrument of thy captains’ pleasure”?

“I …” Deret was nearly in tears, chasing ecstasy through the soreness that Captain Vizhenka reinflamed with every thrust. But he could preserve one small remaining part of his dignity. “I would not soil your desk, Captain Orthema.”

“Canst clean it afterward,” Captain Orthema said without concern. “Now spend.”

It was his captain’s command; he could do no other. With a weak cry he abandoned himself to the powerful spasms rising from his balls into his cock, felt the spurts coat the ridges of his belly and droplets run down and catch in his pubic hair. His shoulders slumped, his head hung low, and he had barely the strength to hold himself up as Captain Vizhenka’s body stuttered into his own climax.

“Well done, Lieutenant,” Captain Orthema said as Captain Vizhenka withdrew. “And now, shalt clean our desk.”

Gingerly, Deret straightened, flexing his white-knuckled fingers. He reached for his hose and tabard, which he had draped over the back of Captain Orthema’s desk chair, not relishing the thought of fabric against his arse at the moment.

“Did we tell thee that couldst dress again yet?” Captain Orthema demanded with one eyebrow raised.

Deret froze. “My apologies, Captain. An it please you, where might I find a rag and oil with which to clean your desk?”

 _“Where_ thou might’st find them is in that closet on the far wall. _When_ thou might’st find them is after hast used thy tongue on the desk first.”

It was, in sooth, more humiliating than being whipped: bending with his welted red arse in the air once more, licking up his own seed and whatever seed of both captains that had dripped out of him. He chose to take refuge once again in obedience, in the rightness of following the orders of the men who had earned his utter trust. He swallowed every drop of that combined bitterness, then retrieved oil and rag from the closet and, still bare-arsed, polished the wood to a high shine as Captains Orthema and Vizhenka gauged his work with critical eyes. None who had not seen it happen would ever know that they had thoroughly debauched him upon it.

“As we said, Captain Vizhenka, he is the perfect soldier,” Captain Orthema said proudly. “He takes the lash without even needing to be restrained. He takes the cocks of his betters even more sweetly. And, of course, he takes their seed in his mouth. And look how he has shined our desk! Not a speck of dust upon it, nor a speck of seed, for that matter.”

“In sooth, it is perfectly spit-shined,” Captain Vizhenka quipped, and Captain Orthema laughed at that. “Have you learned yet whether he polishes other things so well with his mouth?”

Deret blushed. Captain Orthema said, “We do not know yet, but if he does not, we shall train him. Lieutenant Beshelar has never once failed to learn the proper execution of his duties. But that will be another day. Lieutenant, you may dress again. We hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

His bare arse stinging, his exposed cock still sticky with his spend, Deret smartly saluted first Captain Orthema, then Captain Vizhenka. “We are pleased we could be of service to our captains,” he said. Delicately, he blotted himself with an unsoiled spot on the rag, and then he took up his tabard and his hose.


End file.
